


Playing House

by strix_alba



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strix_alba/pseuds/strix_alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are lots of people who get to say that Peggy Carter broke their bones or injured herself to keep them safe; but as far as Angie can tell, she’s the only person in the world for whom Peggy Carter has played at being a regular domestic gal, just because she knows that it tickles Angie’s fancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing House

**Author's Note:**

> expanded version of a fill for the prompt "Peggy/Angie, home" over at such_heights's delightful (and ongoing!) [MCU kissing fest](http://such-heights.dreamwidth.org/459287.html).

There’s an awful lot to be said for living in one of Howard Stark’s side properties, but there’s even more to be said for living in one of Howard Stark’s side properties _with her best friend_. Like sitting on the green divan in the parlor, eating burnt lasagna on Mr. Stark’s fancy china, just because they can; and taking a whole day together to dust the daylights out of every flat surface and curved cranny in the house. Angie is morally opposed to cleaning until the dust bunnies build up enough to start interfering with her knitting, but there’s something grand about putting on a pair of baggy pants and doing waltzes with the broom while Peggy laughs with a rag in her hand and tells her to make piles of the dust instead of sweeping it every which way. 

“You take all the fun outta playing house, English,” Angie tell her. Peggy just throws the filthy wet rag at her, and Angie dodges it before she realizes that it’s going to land on the beautifully embroidered armchair, and now they have to clean _that_ , and Peggy glows the whole time that she’s got her sleeves rolled up and her hair coming down in limp, sweaty waves around her face.

Angie also relishes the fact that they can entertain guests now, like proper polite members of society who don’t sneak food from their workplace for dinner. She invites over a few of the girls from the Griffith, though it takes a full month before they can find a time when no one is working. Peggy tries to bake for the occasion and instead just makes a mess.

“You don’t spend a lot of time in the kitchen, huh?” Angie says, upon discovering her close to tears over a tray of tragically flat, doughy éclairs.

“I hate wasting food,” says Peggy, throwing the tea towel at the countertop.

Angie pretends not to notice how bright her eyes are as she puts a hand on her arm. She reaches for the alleged éclairs and takes a bite once she’s sure she’s not going to burn her mouth. It’s a little too eggy, but Angie thinks that if they add enough chocolate, no one will care all that much. “I’ve had worse,” she says. “You think those poor girls stuck with Griffith cooking are going to care if the pastry’s too heavy?”

Peggy covers the hand on her arm with her own. “I thought you liked the food there.”

“Yeah, back when I was a starving waitress in a boarding house. Now I’ve got my own fancy house and it’s gone to my head,” Angie improvises. “Anyway, I can fix this. You make the tea, all right?” And just like that, everything is fine: Peggy gives her a weak smile and lets Angie do damage control on the éclairs while she sets out tea and saucers in the parlor. By the time their guests arrive, appropriately awed at how far in the world their former sister-in-arms have come, Peggy has pulled herself together enough to laugh at herself when she gets powdered sugar in her hair while twisting it back. Angie dusts off her back and shoulders for her and sails out to answer the door like she’s the Queen of England welcoming her subjects. They ooh and ahh as she and Peggy show them around the house, arm in arm, and Angie thinks she might burst, she’s so pleased with herself. 

But even more than that, the best part of this whole shindig — the absolute best — has got to be the days when Angie has a closing shift at the diner and Peggy doesn’t work late. Those are the days when she gets home at eleven at night, feet sore and feeling greasy from the inside out. If Peggy’s been at the office late, (or out beating up bad guys with chairs), then she’ll just have gone straight to bed, and the lights will be off. Angie will take off her shoes just inside the door, because the great big foyer makes even her worn-out flats echo like tap shoes and Peggy probably sleeps light because that’s what happened to Angie’s brothers when they came back from overseas. If she gets home and Peggy is already asleep, then Angie will fix herself a sandwich and go to her own room without making a peep.

Other times, the lights in the hallway will still be on, and Angie will feel just a little bit of her energy return to her as she unlocks the door. She can usually rustle up enough to sing out, “Honey, I’m home!” as she opens the door, like she’s the wholesome-but-weary middle-class husband in a radio show or one of the new plays that are coming out now that the war is over. 

Then Peggy strides down the hallway looking like murder took the day off for once — sometimes wearing an apron if she’s still making dinner, which is charming and highlights her waistline. “Oh good, I was beginning to think you’d run off with one of your charming customers,” she says, or, “How do you feel about mince pies?” Her tone is as dry and careful as ever, but her eyes sparkle, and she kisses Angie on the cheek and steals the hat off of her head. (Once, when Angie was feeling very silly, she’d turned her head so that the kiss landed on her mouth, and Peggy had swatted her with her own hat and smiled so hard that they’d both burst out laughing. Angie keeps that memory at a safe distance, only takes it out of the closet and dusts it off to warm her cheeks and her stomach on special occasions.)

Little moments like that are Angie’s very favorite part: there are lots of people who get to say that Peggy Carter broke their bones or injured herself to keep them safe (which stresses Angie out to no end, even if Peggy doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal when she gets shot at or bruised or — once — stabbed in the thigh). But as far as Angie can tell, she’s the only person in the world* for whom Secret Agent Margaret Carter has played at being a regular domestic gal, just because she knows that it tickles Angie’s fancy.

(*Peggy has shared just enough of her wartime adventures for Angie to know about her man in the army. Angie is determined to find out his name, one day. She thinks he might have been the sort for whom Peggy would have been domestic, too, and she isn’t sure whether seeing her friend happy would completely outweigh her jealousy but she knows that if she were the praying kind, she’d be praying for a miraculous return, just to see how it would light up Peggy’s face.)

On Angie’s favorite nights, after she’s taken off her coat, they'll walk together into the dining room and sit down at the oversized table, and Peggy will tell her about her day while they eat. She's vague on some details, but Angie gets the impression that she's building something big, important in ways that make her head spin to think about. For sure, she's building something where people will listen to her when she speaks. And based on her stories, it involves a whole lot of running around Manhattan below ground with Howard Stark and arguing with people so old and rich and white that Angie only reads about them in the serious newspapers.

Sometimes she’ll stop in the middle of a sentence, pursing her lips. “I don’t think I should tell you about the basement bunker,” she says. “It’s classified.”

“Classified, my ass. You just don’t want me to have any fun,” Angie says, refilling her wine glass.

It’s usually enough to elicit a snort, even if Peggy will still change the subject. “You’re absolutely right. You know how much I resent your happiness,” Peggy tells her, lips curving up in a smile that does awful things to Angie’s heart. From the way that she looks at Angie, she might know it, too. “Why don’t we practice your audition, instead?”


End file.
